I lived in a Boston neighborhood undergoing gentrification (that’s the code word, of course, for what happens when privileged people move into poorer neighborhoods, forcing the rents up and the poor people out).

One half of the neighborhood had already undergone the complete transformation – wide lawns, landscaping, happy families. The other half of the neighborhood struggled to catch up – dilapidated houses, homelessness, constant police presence.

I lived in the struggling half. By no accident, my part of the rent was a mere $525 a month. This was pittance for Boston.

Every day, I walked from the train station to my apartment along the main boulevard. Always busy, always peopled. After a few blocks, I would turn left onto my street and walk up a steep hill to the Victorian house at the top: one half of which was my apartment.

On this summer day, 6pm and still bright out, I passed three teenagers before turning left onto my block. I barely noticed them; they were three people of dozens that I passed. And as usual my mind was elsewhere – work, boyfriend, writing, what to make for dinner that night.

I made it halfway up the steep hill to my apartment before I heard three sets of footsteps run up behind me. One of them threw his arms around me in a sort of backward bear hug. Because I couldn’t see anything behind me, I thought it was one of my friends from the neighborhood.

I said, “What are you doing?” Bewildered, maybe a little amused.

They said nothing.

“Hey guys!” I said, playful. “Hey now.”

Nothing. I struggled up against the bear hug grip. Whoever it was grew stronger as I fought harder.

That silence. That silence said everything. They didn’t answer because they had a job to do. They didn’t answer because they weren’t there to talk to me. They didn’t answer because I wasn’t allowed to know them on that level. They didn’t answer because there was nothing to say.

Then I knew. I knew I was being mugged when they said nothing.

First, there was the embarrassment. It seems strange to feel embarrassed at such a time, but there it was. Why did I feel such shame? I still don’t know. But I think it’s because I had let them in for a brief moment, equated them with friends, and then had been horribly wrong. How could I have thought they were my friends?

Then a cold sickness set in. Less of a panic and more of resolute helplessness. In the wild, I imagine this is what playing dead must be like. They had me, and there was nothing I could do. I shut down, stopped struggling.

With this deadness came clarity of purpose. I knew what they wanted, so I let my purse fall to the ground. They grabbed it and ran.

I turned as they ran away. One of them had cornrows. It’s the only detail I remember.

“I was robbed,” I whispered to no one. “Help.”

Neighbors did not come out of their houses. No one had heard a thing. How could they have? It was a silent crime.

I ran, following after them. I’m not sure what I had hoped to accomplish. When I reached the main street, I stopped. They were too far ahead, had spread out. I sat down on the sidewalk. Cried.

A car slowed: two big guys with a Doberman Pinscher in the backseat.

“Did those kids rob you?”

I nodded.

They handed me a cell phone. “Call the cops,” one of them said. “We’ll be back.” Then they took off after the kids in their car.

I dialed 9-1-1. The operator asked me to describe what happened, what my purse looked like.

“It had an… arm,” I faltered. “A long arm.”

“A strap?” she asked, gentle.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I can’t find the right thing. The right thing.” My mind had utterly shut down, almost every part of it.

“It’s OK. You’ve had some trauma. Do you remember anything about the person who robbed you?”

“There were three of them.”

“Men or women?”

“I don’t know. One man. Cornrows.”

This was as much as I could describe. By then, the cops had arrived. The men with the Doberman Pincsher had returned. They didn’t find the kids, but they had seen them and could describe them to the police.

I handed the cell phone back to them. I thanked them but I’m not sure if, in my state, I could let them know how much I appreciated that they stopped. My hope is that they somehow knew. They were everything to me in that moment. But as much as I appreciated their help, I’m glad they never caught those kids. I don’t know what they were planning to do with them. I don’t want to know.

Later, after my roommate came home and I had calmed down a little, the cops called. They caught one, they said. Would I be willing to identify him?

They pulled up to the house, yanked him out of the car, almost lifting him by his scruff.

“This him?” the cop asked.

Through the door, I stared. He had cornrows and looked me straight in the eyes. An unreadable face. A silent face.

I wanted to say, “What are you doing? Why did you do this to me? To yourself? You have so much life to live.”

The cop prodded. “Can you identify him?”

After a long while, I told the truth. “I can’t identify him. I never saw their faces.”

I couldn’t in good conscience identify this kid as my mugger.

The cop was less than pleased, but he accepted it. He shoved the kid back in the car.

As it turned out, it didn’t matter anyway. They had enough evidence to book him. He had been running through a neighborhood, his pockets full of loose change and my debit card. His friends were never caught, nor did the kid implicate them. He was on his own.

You should know that when I was mugged, my purse contained a total of four dollars.

*****

The concept of justice is a strange one. It suggests not only that there’s a righteous order to the universe, but that it’s one we can enforce and make right if it ever goes off course. In the case of my mugger, I often wonder whether justice was really served. Not justice for me but for him.

He was a mere 15 years old. It wasn’t his first offense, and getting caught a second time meant jail time for him. I know this because I was invited to his hearing, though I declined to go. I found out afterward that because he was so young, he was sentenced to juvenile detention until the age of 18. I also learned that he had two older brothers in jail.

I’m not suggesting that he shouldn’t have been held accountable because of his age. He should and he was. For better or worse, he paid for what he did to me. And for a long time, I hated my muggers. I hated them for the fact that I jumped every time I heard footsteps behind me. I hated them for the mace I carried from the train station to my apartment every day afterward. I hated them for making me feel unsafe in my neighborhood. I hated them for touching me. I hated them for targeting me.

But as I got older, that anger was replaced with sadness.

Abolitionist Theodore Parker once wrote, “I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.” A century later, in 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. used similar words in a speech to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

I want to believe that. I want to believe that justice isn’t simply a just consequence. That it’s something much more. It’s what’s right in the long run. It’s what’s moral beyond the scope of what immediately affects you and me, since our eyes reach “but little ways.”

This is why I wonder about him, wonder whether justice was ever really served. If there were real justice, my mugger’s parents would not have failed him, or their parents before them. If there were real justice, my mugger would not have grown up poor. If there were real justice, my mugger would have been engaged in school. If there were real justice, he wouldn’t have had so many disadvantages against him even before leaving the womb. If there were real justice, whatever circumstances led him to me that desperate summer evening would not have occurred. My mugging, terrible though it was, was just a blip compared to the long line of injustices dotting this kid’s life.

Two months after the mugging, I left the neighborhood altogether and moved in with my boyfriend. Because I could; I had the means to leave. In the years since, I’ve had many purses. And I’ve made back those four dollars and then some.

But what happened to him? It’s been over ten years. He’s a man now, if he’s still alive. Is he in jail? Does he have a family? Does he have a job? I sincerely hope, rather than believe, he has a chance of having a successful life. But I don’t know. I want to believe that whatever his crime against me, the moral arc of his universe is bending toward goodness for him.

Share this:

Like this:

LikeLoading...

Related

About Erin K.L.G.

I write screenplays and fiction. In 2013, I became a finalist in the Academy Nicholl Fellowships in Screenwriting and in the Austin Film Festival Screenplay & Teleplay competition. My work has also been featured on Jezebel and Offbeat Home & Life. You can contact me at be.sarcastic@gmail.com.

Post navigation

10 thoughts on ““The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice””

It says a lot about you that you worry about the fate of your perpetrator. I was mugged twice while living in New York City in the early and mid 1970’s. In addition my new high security apartment was robbed. I never knew any of the people who did these things to me. The first mugging was like a thunderbolt, he grabbed my purse and ran. I couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman, young or old, black or white, only that they were incredibly fast. The second time my purse was grabbed, I didn’t let go of it and got hit in the head with something, perhaps a fist, and went down like a ton of bricks. You can be sure I let go of the purse then. I have no memory of anything beyond the hit on the head and once again no idea who robbed me. The home robbery occurred while I was at work and at Christmas time. Subway tokens for a month were taken, small gifts, what little jewelry I had, my tv, etc. The woman across the hall had I worse. She was defrosting 2 steaks on the counter for dinner and whoever robbed her, made the steaks in her apartment and ate them in her kitchen. The home robbery disturbed me most of all because it was in my so-called sanctuary. On the street, we are told it is a jungle and you have to be careful out there so in some weird way, I didn’t feel as violated as I did in the home robbery. The fact that they went through my things and took their time in our apartments was frightening and it made me feel less safe for years afterward. I used to love jewelry but after that robbery, I never bought another piece and any I got as gifts, I gave away. I just didn’t want to have something that would attract someone to come into my home to take it. It was years before I ever really felt safe again and 40 years later I’m still a fanatic about every door and window in my home being locked and most double locked. I have to confess, I’ve never thought about the perpetrators except in terms of anger at first. I didn’t care what happened to them, I wanted them in the simplest terms possible, to leave me alone. You are a far better person who worry about the impact on the young disadvantaged life that probably led to these crimes.

I cannot imagine a home invasion. My mind literally will not let me go there. I have nothing but sympathy for what you went through. No one should ever have to live through that.

I don’t know if my concern for my mugger makes me a better person. I definitely had anger toward all of them. But over time the anger gave way to trying to understand. And then I came to the conclusion that the only real justice was the kind that addressed the reasons that led to the mugging in the first place. Him being sent to juvie was a band aid on a greater injustice.

I have to thank you for taking such a hard topic and discussing it in such a thoughtful way. If only elected politicians and media commentators could be as deliberative as you. I agree with Marion that it’s a real statement to you as a person that you remain concerned about the fate of your attacker, and that this is what you chose to write about. This post will stick in my mind for a long time.

One can’t help but wonder about those kids all these years later. They probably did things like that more than you realize. If they grew up in a place where they were treated fairly, with love and most importantly, with respect as a person, they would probably be different. I was in my car at a red light in a quite different and less crime ridden part of Boston a couple years ago when I saw a white guy lean his bicycle against a sub shop and walk in. There were no other people around except for one dark-skinned kid who looked to be about twelve years old. He walked up to the bike and just started walking with it down the sidewalk. I watched as the bike’s owner came out of the store followed by one of the workers, run to grab his bike, shove the kid and walk back to the store. The kid shrugged and continued on his way as if this is just what he does wherever he is. It’s all about opportunity and ease of the target. I told you the colors of the people in this story for descriptive purposes only. I used to work for CVS in the Boston area and thieves came in every color and economic class. One time I stopped a mid-twenties white girl for stealing over $100 in makeup. She offered to pay if we didn’t call the police, she had more than $100 with her. Maybe the sense of justice for her and others was merely the idea that some person, store, company has more than they do so they should be able to take things from them. I can’t get philosophical about justice because I think it’s random. How many Wall Street people did jail time when they took billions of dollars from taxpayers and investors? How many people are serving multiple years in prison for selling less than an ounce of marijuana? How many white people get lesser sentences than dark-skinned people for the same crimes? I have to say I’m impressed by the men who stopped to help you. I admire people who do the right thing. There is a remarkable story from 1996 that was recently in the news again about a black woman, Keshia Thomas, 18-years-old at at the time, who used her own body to cover a KKK member who had been knocked to the ground by a mob at a rally and was about to be beaten to death. She said, “Someone had to step out of the pack and say, ‘This isn’t right.'” The article said months later she was approached by someone in a coffee shop who thanked her. The guy said the man she saved was his father. She’s in her 30s now and said recently, “I don’t want to think that this is the best I could ever be. In life you are always striving to do better. The biggest thing you can do is just be kind to another human being. It can come down to eye contact or a smile. It doesn’t have to be a huge monumental act. For the most part, people who hurt…they come from hurt. It is a cycle. Let’s say they had killed him or hurt him really bad. How does the son feel? Does he carry on the violence?” Those are words my own father could have said to me because that’s what he taught me through his actions, but if it were me at that rally, I probably would have walked away and let the mob relieve the planet of that racist, fascist filth. I marvel at what Keshia did. Growing up, I was treated fairly, with love and respect as a person, but I was a white, suburban, middle class kid. But I wouldn’t have saved that guy. Did he deserve justice? Not in my opinion. I wonder how many people would look at Keisha, maybe in a clothing store, and think immediately she should be watched as a potential shoplifter. The human race is better for her existence. Her actions show us that justice is meted out by those who don’t care what the word “justice” means, she understood immediately and in not so many words she could “divine it by conscience.” And as you wrote, Erin, “It’s what’s right in the long run. It’s what’s moral beyond the scope of what immediately affects you and me.” Thank you for giving us something to think about on a day when Americans of every color, nationality, religion and economical caste should consider the works and legacy of the brave man born on Jan. 15, 1929.

Thank so much, Bob. I always love your thoughtful comments. And I remember Keshia Thomas. She is a remarkable woman. I like to think that she helped not only that one guy but all of humanity through her actions that day.

Very moving piece and described so well. Thank goodness nothing worse happened during your ordeal. What you described was horrible enough. I can’t imagine. It is strength of character indeed to think about your attacker and wonder about the justice of his fate. The product of our circumstances can be a scary thing sometimes. I think so many of these kids are just that. It is not an excuse by any means but it does, as you say, invoke a sense of sadness.